To Sleep, Perchance for Visitors
by BlackBandit111
Summary: The times people saw Sherlock Holmes sleeping without his knowledge. No slash. You suggest characters. Set in season 3. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**_Hey! This is yet another oneshot, I'm spitting out Sherlock stories left and right. It could be considered a companion peace to Windows to the Soul, but doesn't necessarily have to be. I just mention in it that Mary knows what Sherlock looks like when he's asleep, so...yes. Here this is. Hope you like!_**

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She ascended the seventeen steps of 221B Baker Street, the building silent besides the clacking of her boots on the next step. It was chilly in here; she shivered despite her heavy coat against the London air. The reason for this visit was not for a consultation, as one might have assumed was the purpose; she was far too familiar with the atmosphere, the slight chill and the stairs to have been a client that the detectives so loved to see. So perhaps a repeating consultant, if not for the the fact that she pulled out a key to unlock the door when she reached the landing. Client aren't privileged with keys so a relative, then, or a close friend. She would have to have visited often to be familiarized with the place- she did not falter on the 15th step or gasp when the railing under her hand jiggled slightly, a screw or two loose.

No, the reason for Mary Elizabeth Watson's visit was to find her husband, who was undoubtedly here despite the uncharacteristic silence. He should have returned home hours ago and would have phoned if he and his partner had received any new cases. He should have been home hours ago.

The silence was deafening as Mary opened the door with her key (given to her unquestionably by Mr. John Watson). She slowly turned the knob as to not disturb the quiet; it was strange, this silence. The tenant of this flat was rarely quiet and always managed to make some form of noise, whether it be the bubbling of a new experiment or the new notes floating elegantly from a Stradivarius violin. The silence made Mary's teeth grit and her jaw clench.

The door finally have been opened and shut just as quietly, Mary peered around the flat, bright eyes flickering. What was presented before her should not have surprised her so, but did in the cold, desolate flat.

John Watson, her husband, strolled merrily out of the kitchen with a bounce in his step, a cuppa in hand. He grinned at her, kissed her hello, and padded silently back to his armchair, placing his tea on the side table and returning his laptop to his lap. She opened her mouth to ask why he had not answered her calls nor had he come home; before she could, a firm finger was placed against his lips, a request in his eyes.

_Be quiet._

Blinking, she froze, eyes drifting inexplicably to the sofa. Her lips parted, her eyebrows raising.

Sherlock Holmes lay, curled up like a cat, on the couch, eyes shut and face void of any expression but peace. His brows were relaxed and his lips barely parted, pale face sitting under an untamed mop of raven curls that threw themselves every which way. Little breaths escaped his mouth; not enough to be classified as a snore but nothing less. His hands lay, unmoving, on the pillow near his hair, his head propped up only by the crook of the arm that rested under it. His legs, still clad in dress pants, were bent at the knee, socked feet against the cushions.

Mary turned slowly back to John, who was looking incredibly pleased with himself, a smug little smirk on his face.

He pulled out his blackberry, his thumbs skittering across the buttons silently. _His phone is silenced,_ Mary realized. _He didn't answer when I called because he didn't hear it go off, and he couldn't risk leaving without waking Sherlock…_

Her pocket vibrated suddenly, the noise echoing around the flat. Frantically she dug through her overcoat pockets, eyes never leaving Sherlock's scrunching nose (adorable in the sense that it was probably the most innocent expression she'd ever seen on his face) and his gently furrowing brows.

Something smooth and cool met her trembling fingers and she silenced it in a heartbeat, her breathing heavy as though she had exerted herself. She was dimly aware of John's glare as she unlocked her phone to stare at the text.

**_From: John_**

**_Hi, love, just managed to get him to lie down an hour ago. Plz don't make any noise- he needs the rest. Idiot's been up for 3 days. Thx._**

**_-JW_**

She smiled across the room at him, fingers delicately pressing the keyboard buttons on her own phone.

_To: John_

_How'd you manage that? I can't think that it was willingly._

Then, smirking, she added:

_-MW_

Just because she knew that it would make him chuckle. The answering text came moments later.

**_From: John_**

**_A bit of tea._**

**_-JW_**

Her eyebrows rose.

_To: John_

_Impressive. Just tea?_

_-MW_

The text came mere seconds later.

**_From: John_**

**_I never said I didn't put something in it._**

**_-JW_**

_To: John_

_Ah. And he fell for it?_

_-MW_

**_From: John_**

**_By the time he realized, it was too late. He was composing and had been sipping absently. He downed most of it without really registering, I think._**

**_-JW_**

She paused, considering her next words. She just wanted her John to come home- she wanted to spend more time with him, especially to plan their wedding out more. A glance in Sherlock's direction stole her breath away, and although she hadn't known Sherlock long, she did know John, who was looking at his slumbering flatmate with something akin to fondness. She couldn't pull him away now; he had clearly missed even this, making sure Sherlock slept and ate and remained a little human.

Something stirred within her, a little ache in her chest. She had seen Sherlock at his worst already and at his most brilliant. Now she had seen him at his most human.

So she pulled out her phone, typed one last thing, and hit send. Mary turned on her heel and sauntered out, descending the stairs and leaving the building. She didn't need to bundle her self up in the foyer.

It was warmer.

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_**Admittedly random and slightly pointless, but hey, here it is. Hope you liked it and please leave me a comment on what you thought! Thanks!**_


	2. Chapter 2

**so, this was supposed to stay a oneshot, BUT FireLily0213 suggested that I should write a series of oneshots featuring different characters walking in and seeing Sherlock sleeping. So thank you, FireLily0213!**

**Thank you for all of your reviews to far- they keep the plot bunnies coming! Oh, and if anyone wants to see a particular character, don't hesitate! **

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It wasn't usually something that he did personally; either Sherlock would come pick up the case files or Lestrade would send one of his more tolerant officers to the flat to hand them to Sherlock, who liked to have things tangible and on-hand instead of emailed or texted (surprisingly). It wasn't that Lestrade hated this part of his relationship with the consulting detective- it was a necessary thing to go through if one knew Sherlock Holmes and was acquainted with his temper- but it was a little time consuming. And, if the Detective Inspector was being completely honest, a little annoying. Couldn't Sherlock just cope with the emailed information for once?

Thanking the cabbie and paying him, Lestrade stepped out, walking briskly to the door of 221 and rapping curtly on it. It was chilly outside for March in London and the sky looked questionable today, darker than normal. It was only six o'clock P.M. but the light was already fastly fading, the clouds rolling ominously with the promise of rain.

It took a couple moments, but the kind landlady Mrs. Hudson answered the door, eyebrows creased together. Her lips pulled into a smile of recognition. "Hello, Detective Inspector," she greeted kindly, stepping aside and ushering him into the building, "how are you?" Then, her brows furrowing, she asked, "Oh, has Sherlock done something again?" She clicked her tongue. "He's been silent for a while up there, now, poor dear- I think he's sleeping, actually, but you know," she lowered her voice, "he doesn't like to show other people things like that, if you know what I mean. Why, just last week, Mary-"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Lestrade interrupted the chatty landlady, taking the seventeen steps to 221B three at a time and, as he reached the landing, knocked on the door again, albeit a little softer. If Sherlock actually was sleeping (finally; that man was stubborn when it came to taking care of himself) then Lestrade didn't want to risk waking him. Fleetingly, he thought about coming back later or perhaps tomorrow, but before he could act on his ideas the door creaked open, flooding a gentle and warm light into the cool hallway.

The weary face of John Watson looked back at him, hair ruffled and eyes bright. His jumper was hanging slightly off one shoulder and his clothes looked hastily smoothed, like he had been in one position for a while. There were a few creases here and there, but for the most part he looked normal. "Lestrade," he said, surprise coating his voice as his eyebrows raised. He blinked. "What are you doing here? Oh," he sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Don't tell me Sherlock's been stealing evidence again."

Lestrade blinked, brows furrowing. "No," he said, smirking, "no, not this time, actually. I have the report on the case that we're working on, the file that Sherlock wanted. I just thought I'd get it to him as soon as possible, seeing as he didn't come down to the Yard to pick 'em up."

John sighed, nodding his head. "Yeah, uh, thanks," he murmured, reaching out a hand and taking the offered file. Then he blinked and seemed to remember his manners. "Oh! Here, Lestrade, come in. Can I get you a cuppa?"

Lestrade stepped into the warm flat and was about to politely decline but then he recalled the biting chill, rubbing his frozen fingers together. He didn't even realize he had started to nod. "Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks, John."

John nodded stiffly and swiftly made his way to the kitchen, and Lestrade figured he had fallen asleep in his chair while writing his blog or something, for he sounded particularly groggy and looked unusually rumpled. With nothing to do but stand, Lestrade cast his eyes around the flat, taking in his surroundings-and froze, glued to the spot. His eyes grew wide as a smile gently made its way to his lips.

He had seen Sherlock sleep before- there were the days where he had been homeless and an addict and had no where else to go but Lestrade's couch (his wife had always complained, but never once kicked him out) and Lestrade had sometimes come home to a sleeping Sherlock on his couch, even when his flat had been locked. He had almost forgotten how absurdly peaceful and absolutely young the detective looked when in slumber, though.

Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, his back to the cushions and facing the kitchen. His feet were barefoot and stuck out from the blanket that covered most of his body (no doubt put there by John) and his long fingers were curled around the hem, near his head. His head was propped on the armrest of the couch as his feet were hanging over the other side. His lips were parted slightly and his face was lax, his eyes closed and eyebrows unfurrowed. His hands rest over the side of the couch, dangling almost to the floor, fingers curled slightly into his palm. Every so often, he would make a little snuffling noise and rub his cheek on the armrest.

And Lestrade's feet were suddenly glued to the floor; glued because it brought him back to better times with his wife and his family, better times at the Yard, better times where there were no serial psychopathic killers targeting people (and Sherlock, God help him), and there were no doubts or taunts or stacks of paperwork.

He swallowed.

John came back with the tea and, noticing where his gaze was directed, said with fondness lacing the tone, "yeah. Been like that a few hours, now. Actually didn't have to drug him this time." At Lestrade's incredulous look, John amended, "with sleeping pills, that is. To make him sleep. Bloody Sherlock doesn't know when his "transport" is shutting down."

Well, Lestrade couldn't deny that, really. There had been a few times when Sherlock had collapsed at the Yard from lack of food. "Forgot," he always claimed while, as annoying and snarky as they were, Anderson and Donovan would run to the nearest officer with coffee and a biscuit and always faithfully return with both. Every time. And every time Sherlock always muttered a faint "thank you".

"Anyways," John said with a little satisfied smirk, "all I had to do was start playing a documentary on the solar system and, well. There he is."

And Lestrade couldn't help his broad grin. "Nicely done, mate." He took a deep breath. "Well, I best be off. Thanks for the tea." He placed the still full cup on the nightstand by Sherlock's feet, turning with a small nod. "I'll see you next case!"

"Cheers!" John replied, and as the door shut behind him Greg heard the distinct sound of a lock. He smirked.

So maybe Sherlock Holmes didn't need Greg's couch anymore. That was alright. To be honest, Greg had always thought of Sherlock a little like a (dare he say it?) a child of his own, since he had two daughters and no sons. Sherlock had certainly needed him enough times. He wasn't sure if Sherlock felt the same way, but during the days of withdrawal when Sherlock was barely lucid and so frightened that he clutched at Greg like a lifeline…

And Greg wondered how a man who claimed to feel nothing at all could feel so much.

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**Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Leave me a comment on your thoughts! Good, bad? Somewhere in between?**


	3. Chapter 3

_**Two chapters in one day! I'm on fire! :D**_

_**This is the request made by WeLoveNeville, who wanted Mycroft to find Sherlock asleep in his flat. I hope this is good enough and I hope you like the chapter!**_

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He had come back to his flat like any other workday, having brought his umbrella because the incompetent weather man had predicted rain (and it was an incredibly sunny day outside; he looked like an idiot), to have a meagre dinner, do some paperwork and go to bed to do it all again. Perhaps he'd check up on his brother.

Checking his watch as he reached for his keys, Mycroft discovered it was about nine o'clock P.M.. The sky was midnight dark and there were no stars to be seen, and the noises of the city were still very prominent. Honking and shouts and laughing could be heard from his street, just like always. Nothing seemed terribly out of place.

But all of this was disregarded when he walked up the steps to his door to find it slightly ajar.

Immediately, he froze, swallowing.

Mycroft Holmes was a powerful man; a powerful man with connections. People asked him for favors all the time and it wasn't the first time someone would have broken into the flat.

But the door was ajar, and that seemed off.

Scanning the area, Mycroft realized he had ignored quite a few key observations; the boot print, about a size nine and a half; a bloody fingerprint on the banister to the stairs, dust particles being swept away where he never touched for that reason.

Holding his umbrella out and suddenly relieved he had grabbed it, Mycroft nudged the door open with his foot, expecting…

Not what met his eyes.

Dear God, he was so transparent. His skin was milky white, nearing an ashen color. His eyes had red circles under them and the skin on his face had an almost yellowish hue to it in the nearly non existent light. Deep breathing filled the otherwise empty flat, implying that the intruder was asleep. Long lashes lay delicated against far, far too prominent cheekbones, and cupid bow lips were parted slightly.

His breathing was slightly labored. He was slumped against the wall just inside the door, propped up only by his back. His head was tilted back and exposed a pale, bruised neck, which looked suspiciously like finger prints. The intruder turned his head towards Mycroft with a small grunt, remaining asleep.

Mycroft inhaled sharply, then exhaled slowly. His face softened a little.

Spectacular bruises covered most of the left side of his little brother's face. Blood coated the cheekbone where, obviously, a ring had cut the skin. His eye was completely black and rimmed with blue edges. The bridge of his nose was slashed. He looked terrible. Mycroft's eyes traveled to his little brother's arms, where he discovered a few gashes upon each- made by a knife. There was another slash on his torso, staining through his baggy shirt, and he wasn't wearing shoes. There were little bits of glass imbedded in his soles.

Mycroft swallowed, trying desperately not to let his emotions show. Caring was not an advantage.

He crouched down and smoothed back the curls in a moment of tenderness. His brother was covered in ash and dirt and soot and God knew what else. Mycroft grimaced. He would need a good shower, and some food, and a hospital.

At the movement, Sherlock moaned, and Mycroft reclaimed his hand so fast one could have thought he was burned. Sherlock's eyes cracked open, and they looked bright green. His pupils were normal, though, so Mycroft deduced that this was about dealers.

He took a deep breath. "If you've come for money, brother mine, you're going to be disappointed."

Sherlock moaned again, eyes hazy. Mycroft felt a fleeting throbbing in his heart; was his brother concussed? "My..croft…" He murmured, breath hitching. "Had...no where...t'go…" He slurred, hand weakly lifting from where it rested on the ground to try to grab at him, but it fell back with a gentle thud. Sherlock swallowed, scrunching his face up.

And Mycroft felt his whole countenance melt slightly, because even if he wasn't supposed to feel it didn't mean that he didn't, and Sherlock had finally, finally come to him when he needed someone. This in itself, however, was extremely worrying. Sherlock never needed help- especially from his loathed brother.

"Hurts, hm?" He asked quietly, but there was no malice behind it. His lips pursed. "Stay here, Sherlock. Don't move anything at all." He made to get up, but Sherlock's trembling hand reached out again, and Mycroft took it this time. It was so delicate, like even the slightest pressure might break it.

"Don't...leave…"

And Mycroft really wondered if he truly should take his brother to the hospital because God, this was more vulnerable than Sherlock had ever been, openly asking him to stay. Mycroft swallowed. But what would they do? Throw Sherlock into an asylum? A rehabilitation center? Label him? Treat him badly?

No. No. Mycroft wasn't letting that happen.

"It's alright," he said (a little awkwardly; how did one comfort someone again?) "I'll be right back. I'm just fetching you something for the pain and to bind your wounds." He paused, then, more seriously, his brows furrowing, "Sherlock, if you've taken something within the last twenty four hours, I need you to tell me. I won't be...angry, but I need you to tell me. This is terribly important."

And Mycroft's concern increased because Sherlock was actually cooperating for once in his life. "N...no. No. D-dealers...found m-me…"

Ah. That explained this, then.

"Be back in thirty seconds," he muttered, dashing off to his bathroom cabinet to get the first aid kit and any painkillers that he had in the flat that weren't expired, because damn, his brother was in trouble.

Running back, he flew to the floor once again, on his knees. He shrugged off his coat and tossed it haphazardly over his shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he gently washed his brother's face with Peroxide and a cloth, rubbing and dabbing so gently that he took his own breath away. Sherlock had closed his eyes again somewhere in the span of Mycroft's absence, and they stayed closed. Mycroft wasn't sure if he was glad or worried, and didn't dare classify the feelings he felt churning around in his chest.

He set to work on bandaging the gashes in Sherlock's arms from where he'd obviously been held and near-tortured (there were bruises resembling handprints in these places, too) and once that was done to his satisfaction, he moved onto his little brother's torso, which seemed to be the worst of the injuries. It was still bleeding languidly, oozing crimson liquid onto the baggy and old looking white shirt, which Mycroft tore off. He could replace it easily.

Binding this as carefully and conscientiously as he could, Mycroft took a deep breath and focused on the bottoms of Sherlock's feet. The glass was imbedded deeply, and from the design and the angle of the cut it was from a liquor bottle. Grabbing tweezers and quickly fetching a bowl from the kitchen, Mycroft set to work on gently picking the shards out, dropping them into the bowl. Once he was done with this he grabbed the antiseptic again and cleaned them, then bandaged them.

Sherlock whimpered plaintively, and Mycroft felt his heart stutter.

"Alright, brother mine," he said quietly. "All done with that little issue. Come now. Let's get you to a bed."

Sherlock's eyes flew open until they were wide circles. He looked a little wild all of a sudden, a frightened and trepid glint in his eyes. Mycroft tried not to let his heartache show on his face. Since when did Sherlock reveal so much? "Oh...Mycroft…" He sighed, slumping again. "I'll just...stay...here...comfortable enough...mmm…"

He'd be damned if he let his _little brother_ sleep _in his doorway_ against a_ wall._

"No, Sherlock," he chided, grabbing his brother under the arms and hoisting him upwards, so he was leaning quite dependently on Mycroft, "let's at least get you to the couch. Come now."

And Sherlock did, limp and pliable as he was, flopping onto the couch with a small huff and a quiet grunt. Mycroft regarded him for a few moments, the flat silent besides Sherlock's slowly evening breathing. When they became shallow and measured a couple minutes later, Mycroft knew Sherlock was asleep.

In sleep, Sherlock looked almost angelic. He was at the age where his face was almost completely stripped of baby fat, but not completely, leaving his cheekbones prominent but his face still pleasingly shaped. His lips were parted slightly as little huffs of air passed, and one arm was trapped under him while the other dangled towards the floor. His face was pressed against the fabric of the sofa cushion, not supported by anything. His knees were tucked slightly into his body, his bandaged barefeet exposed to the back cushions.

Mycroft grimaced. Silently, he padded to his room and picked out the smallest shirt he owned (as he was taller than Sherlock by some inches) and padded back to his brother's sleeping and prone form, gently pulling the clothing over his head. Sherlock was pliable and did not resist, his breathing hitching slightly as Mycroft returned him to the couch. He went for socks and came back, slipping them onto the bandaged feet, and then got one of the pillows from his bed and a spare duvet, placing Sherlock's head onto the pillow and the duvet snugly around him.

Satisfied, he brushed his brother's curls off his forehead (to check for temperature, surely, not because he was feeling sentiment) and Sherlock stirred under the touch, pressed into it slightly.

And he murmured three words that Mycroft never thought he'd hear again and that he'd never, ever forget.

"Thank you, My…"


	4. Chapter 4

_**Hope you enjoy the new chapter!**_

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It wasn't something that he'd ever expect to be doing ever again, much less for non work related matters. They were coworkers, in a sense, had known each other long enough and solved enough cases to at least decently call each other as such (to the chagrin of the consultant and the grudging agreement of the analyzer); therefore although it was uncomfortable to be ascending the stairs without a work related purpose, it was with purpose nonetheless, and so was tolerable.

His shoes thudded gently on the stairs as he took the steps, swallowing and reaching the landing. Gulping, he clenched his fitsts, reaching deep and summoning his courage (that hadn't been expended on the cab ride over), took a deep breath, and placed his knuckles against the door of 221B in preparation to knock.

The door creaked open.

Immediately, Anderson's nerves shot to attention. His heart pounded against his ribcage. He knew it was a complete invasion of their privacy, completely against the law; just because the door was slightly didn't grant him automatic entry.

But since when did Sherlock and John keep the door unlocked? (God knew it had been increasingly hard to open after every drugs bust they performed).

The street door was always locked (the landlady had let him in; a kind woman) and even when they were home it wasn't usually left unlocked, either. (Too many criminals had the detective and his blogger on their hit lists, after all.)

Swallowing again, his eyes flickering as he peered around, he took a deep breath, placing his palm flat against the door.

And he gently pushed it open.

The flat was messy, books sprawled over table tops and papers scattered around the floor. The flat looked like this often during cases that Sherlock was working out (as drugs busts had proven time and time again) but the only thing was…

Sherlock and John didn't have a case.

John was military; it was doubtful he'd simply let Sherlock toss things about the flat, even when he only lived here half the time. Anderson wasn't sure if Sherlock himself was usually messy (it did seem a sharp contrast to the usually meticulous man, but then again, Sherlock didn't necessarily care about appearances, so perhaps it wasn't). The more likely conclusion was that Sherlock had been bored again and decided to, again, throw things.

But Anderson had been a Yard worker, and nothing was ever so simple.

Turning and gently moving over to the fireplace, Anderson picked up the poker, his hands clenching. A small hitch breath caught his attention and Anderson pivoted sharply, poker held like a baseball bat. His eyes widened as he exhaled; the poker was lowered gently to the floor, placed quietly so it only made a nearly inaudible clunk.

Sherlock's head was resting on the crook of his arm, his face turned towards Anderson. The other hand was laying over the knob of his microscope, nimble fingers twitching slightly, a they were suspended over the table. His lanky form was hunched over on his stool where he was sitting. It looked terribly uncomfortable, hunched over as he was, but his face was relaxed and his brows were unfurrowed. His lips were parted slightly and huffy breaths escaped, disturbing the curls that lay in his face a little.

All in all, he looked extremely peaceful.

Anderson floundered, mouth opening and closing repeatedly. Then, wordlessly, he went to the couch, fetching a throw blanket and the union jack pillow and quietly padding back to Sherlock's side. He slowly and incredibly gently lifted Sherlock's head, and the detective must have been well and truly asleep for Anderson's presence to go so unnoticed (or, perhaps, just disregarded. One never knew with Sherlock Holmes). Biting his lip, Anderson moved Sherlock's arm that had been cushioning his head aside to make room for the pillow. Sherlock gave a little sigh, but miraculously remained asleep. If Anderson hadn't known Sherlock was breathing, he would have been concerned. Sliding the pillow into place, he lowered Sherlock's head, raising an eyebrow when Sherlock made a small noise into the pillow.

Anderson swallowed the burn of guilt that rose in his chest, instead unfolding the blanket and draping it over Sherlock's bent shoulders, eyes flickering over the cluttered table. He smirked at the many cups of coffee and the multiple notebooks (all filled with Sherlock's messy, spindly scrawl, even the margins). A laptop was also open in front of the detective, the site "The Science of Deduction" pulled up into the only tab. Swallowing, Anderson stared at Sherlock a moment longer, convinced that this would be the only time he'd ever see the self proclaimed sociopath without a smark or a sneer on his face, and actually peaceful.

Then, returning the poker to its proper place, he strode to the front door of the flat and closed it behind him.

Anderson knew that it wasn't even a start to letting Sherlock know how truly sorry he was, and that it was much less than Anderson had planned. But the consulting detective was back, and that was all that mattered.

And if the next time Sherlock and Anderson happened to see each other Sherlock would stare after Anderson with something keen and knowing in his gaze, Anderson wouldn't mention it to anyone.

And if Sherlock had given him a genuine smile that day, Anderson wouldn't mention that, either.

Because Sherlock forgave.

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_**Well there we are, viewers! New chapter for you all. Sorry if it was sort of short, I'm actually sort of busy at the moment, trying to do too many things at once. Thanks for reading and please leave me a comment on your thoughts! Thanks!**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Whew! This chapter was long and sort of hard to write, although I do love writing from Sally Donovan's POV; I think she's an interesting character. (I like Anderson because he's so dynamic.) This was a request from a guest to do a Sally Donovan POV and I hope it does not disappoint!**_

_**Thank you for all of the AMAZING feedback from you guys! You're all so sweet and nice and your reviews make my day, so thank you all for the reviews, follows, and favorites you've generously been giving me!**_

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Sally Donovan had always considered The Freak inhuman; he was a machine- an unfeeling, sociopathic machine. She had tried not to think about him too much nor too often (as the mere thought of him made her sneer as it caused her good mood to diminish) but she could find herself sometimes wondering if he needed to what normal people did- eat, and sleep, and perhaps let off steam and have friends or maybe have a good long cry.

She pushed it from her mind as often as it occurred, which was more frequently since he'd made his (admittedly spectacular) return. He snuck into her thoughts like a whisper of a shadow; barely there, but always present in someway- at crime scenes, in the staff room, even eating her breakfast, for God's sake.

There was a heavy feeling that had settled in her chest and it made it hard to breathe. Guilt?

She had accused him (wrongly, foolishly, she knew now; out of an unfair jealousy towards his brilliance) of being a fraud, of not being real. He was obviously real, and she had blatantly managed to take his reputation and tarnish it in a few hours. All it took was one person. The opinion and lie she had formulated spread like a disease. But where Anderson had quit his job to look for the "Dead' detective, Sally had done the opposite, launching herself into her career with a fervor that had astonished most. She knew she was trying to escape the guilt, the guilt that she had killed a good man, and that she knew it was all her fault.

Sherlock had thrown himself from the roof of St. Bartholomew's hospital.

And now he was back.

When she had gotten the call about a house disturbance, she didn't question why some of the lesser officers in her department couldn't take care of it; that seemed low, after everything she'd done and everything she'd been through. She grabbed the gun from her desk and her keys from her drawer and pocketed both, jumping into her squad car. The address was radioed to her and she left with no further questions asked.

When she arrived, the presumed landlord was standing in the hallway waiting for her. "Inside," He said gruffly, voice thick with exhaustion, "go right in."

Sally nodded and stepped past him into the room.

She could barely believe what she was seeing.

There was a young woman sitting in an armchair across from the couch, a trepid look on her face; this was not what had captured Sally's attention, though, and she stared past the young lady with wide eyes.

Sherlock Holmes' eyes were blown wide and his mouth hung slightly open. His curls hung loosely around his face, which was pale besides two rosy patches on his cheeks. His eyebrows quirked and a smile made its way onto his lips. It wasn't like the usual snarl, but seemed genuine; his eyes were bright. Sally couldn't help the thought that he would be handsome if he smiled like that all the time.

"Jooohhn," Sherlock slurred, turning and nudging his friend, who Sally finally noticed was sitting next to him. John looked worse than Sherlock; his hair was sticking up at all angles and he had bags under his eyes, which flickered as they opened.

"Sh-Sherlock?" He muttered, and the answer Sally like a freight train. They were both drunk; terribly, terribly drunk. They were the disturbance.

Sally figured she shouldn't have been surprised, but she was.

"Mr. Holmes was sick, and...he was investigating, but I didn't…" The woman trailed off, biting her lip. Sally smiled grimly at her and gave an understanding nod.

"I apologize on their behalves," she said, rolling her eyes at the rapidly turning greener detective. Observing this, Sally gulped. "Fre-Sherlock?"

He turned to her, eyes wider than before and full of sudden, unmitigated panic. He hunched forward; Sally was in motion before she could register moving, lunging at the nearest bin and placing it under Sherlock's chin just as he began to heave. His whole body shuddered and jolted with the force of his movements; he scrambled for purchase and ended up gripping Sally's forearms so hard that his knuckles turned white. He was practically doubled over. She felt an abrupt pang of pity for him- it didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on. It was only around 11:15 P.M, and they had probably been in their flat for some time in order for this woman to find them and consult them.

Sherlock finished, pulling back and panting from lack of breath. She set down the dirty bin and glanced up to find Sherlock's eyes closed. "Wake up," she commanded, nudging his knee. His bright eyes opened blearily, locking onto her face. His brows furrowed.

"Where 'm I?"

She rolled her eyes, hoisting him up by the arm. He came unsteadily, limp and pliable. "Not where you're supposed to be. Come on. To the cruiser."

"Cruiser? John!"

Sally's eyes flickered to the slumbering John Watson, letting out a huff. "He'll be along in a moment, Sherlock. He's...taking care of something. He'll be along. Come on."

Sherlock stopped, feet rooted to the floor. He stared at her, determination smoldering in his eyes. "No. Can't leave John."

Sally groaned, resisting the urge to stomp her foot. Of all the days to be stubborn and relentless about his friendship with John Watson, why was it now?

"Come on, Sherlock. You've gotta go."

Sherlock shook his head, swaying where he stood. "They're- after us. Going to try- to get to John. Can't let them. Can't let them get to John or Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson. Nope, nope, nope."

He hiccuped, face contorting into that of annoyance for a moment. Sally's interest was piqued, but as soon as the face had formed it had fell. "Who?"

Sherlock hummed, swaying still, and Sally instinctively went and grabbed him by the elbow to steady him. To her surprise, he didn't recoil; his hand came to grip at her forearm, like she was his tether to the rest of the world. "From everyone. From Moriarty. S'not supposed to be…"

Sally's brows furrowed, and her voice, when she spoke, was soft. "Not supposed to be what?"

Sherlock's eyelashes fluttered over glittering blue eyes, and if Sally wasn't fooling herself, she might have thought he was upset. "S'not supposed to be...like this. He's not s'posed to be- so angry with me. I did it to -to protect him."

Sally found her breath stolen. "Sherlock," she asked quietly, minding the other people loitering around in the house, "Were you scared? When you jumped off that roof?"

Sherlock's gaze rested upon her face, and for a moment, she thought he looked determined. "I was afraid for my friends," he said firmly, lips pressed into a thin line.

And suddenly she felt indescribably terrible, because she had taken advantage of this man in his intoxicated state, and that she had always assumed that he was the sociopath he claimed to be. But what kind of a sociopath jumped off a roof to save his only friends in the world? None, obviously.

Only Sherlock Holmes.

And her heart seemed to throb a little for the man who pushed everyone away for years, just to protect the three people in the whole universe that had bothered to look past his facade that he had constructed around himself for security.

And her heart seemed to throb because for all her detective work, Sally couldn't deduce the same thing for herself. How she had goaded him on.

Swallowing down the flood of emotions that had suddenly bombarded her, she gripped his elbow tighter, saying quietly, "John will come. He'll be safe. I promise."

Dubious grey eyes regarded her seriously for a moment, and she scarcely dared to breathe. They flickered all over her face, cleverness and some sort of inner light shining from their depths, before he nodded slowly, eyes never leaving her own. She allowed herself a small smile.

"Come on, then."

They walked out of the building and she ducked him into her cruiser, taking care to make sure he didn't hit his head on the edge. Then, making sure he was properly seated and wasn't about to jump out of the car to find his friend, she returned to John Watson's side, and helped him to the car too. When she went around to the front of the car and began to drive, both were silent, John dozing and Sherlock pensive.

She pulled into the police station with an air of finality about her, not about to let them both go back to their flat just to wander around again and get themselves killed (not to mention all the hidden weapons undoubtedly in their house). She first helped John into the building and into a holding cell (as she didn't know many other places she could them, now did she?) and went back out to the car for the Freak.

She stopped short, eyes widening in shock for the second time that night.

His forehead was tilted against the cool glass of the window and offered just a side view of his face; his cheekbone was slightly pressed against the window, too, and his eyes were closed. His skin was fair in the pale light of the moon, and Sally, not finding the cruelty within her to cause him to come tumbling out of the car, went around and opened the other passenger's side.

She faltered when she saw his expression, which was not that of peace, but pain. His brows were pulled tightly together and his lips were parted slightly. His curls framed his face and dangled a little into closed eyes. He had long lashes- she had never noticed before. Taking a deep breath, she shook her head, gently touching his shoulder and giving a little shake.

His eyes snapped open and a snarl ripped from his throat as he lunged and grasped at air, hands clenching before him. She threw herself out his way and watched with a sort of morbid fascination as he growled, running long fingers through his hair and rubbing at his eyes, trying to find his bearings. She peered cautiously at him, saying, "Sherlock?" Trying to get him to come back from whatever had just occurred.

The spell seemed to have passed, however, and his keen yet groggy eyes fell on her form again. "Nrgh…" He groaned, rubbing at the other eye with his knuckle (and he looked, admittedly, very young just then, like a kid who had woken from a nap). Her heart swelled. "Where'm I?"

Patience seemed to be on Sally's side just then, because she managed a very calm tone. "In the back of my car. I'm taking you inside."

He blinked slowly, as if still half asleep, and Sally took the opportunity to gently tug him out of the car. His body was folded in on itself, his shoulders hunched- almost like he was trying to look smaller. "Mff," he mumbled, wiping at his cheeks. "Hate nigh'mares."

She stiffened, her gaze flying to his face. Would she dare?

Hell yes. What in the world does one Sherlock Holmes possibly have nightmares about?

"What was it about?" She said as steadily as possible, trying not to sound eager. God forgive her if she found out it was something embarrassing and couldn't contain herself from telling all of Scotland Yard…

"They…" He hesitated, voice wavering. "It was him. He had the metal pipe."

In that moment, her heart stopped.

"Who?" She asked, and if her voice was urgent then well, it was urgent for a reason. "Who did it? What metal pipe?" Even if it was only a dream…

But what if-?

"He- it was the Serbians 'gain." Sherlock said, rubbing harshly at his other eye again. Sally resisted the urge to claim his hand in her own just to make him stop. "John's us'lly there b'fore it gets bad. But I was bein' tortured again. And Mycroft wasn't there to stop 'im that time."

She didn't know who 'Mycroft' was, but…

What the hell had he been through during those two years? 'Tortured again'? Like he had been tortured a first time?

She watched with pity as he turned his face away from her, hunching in on himself. She'd never guessed Sherlock would ever be drunk like this, much less an unhappy drunk. She always sort of pictured him as a statue- unfeeling and cold, but also untouchable.

And suddenly she felt absolutely vile for the way she'd asked this man questions and taken advantage of him in his vulnerable state; vile for the way she'd judged him without a second thought; vile for the way she'd insulted and damned this man from the start. Too much had been revealed to her tonight. She didn't want to know more.

Sherlock opened his mouth to talk again, but Sally beat him to it. "Sherlock, just...be quiet for now, alright?" She paused, taking a deep breath. "Just be quiet."

She led him into the building and down the hallway to the holding cell she'd placed John, and obediently, he was silent. Gently guiding him through the doorway, she considered just leaving him there and going. She knew she would have any other time.

Instead she moved him to the small cot in the corner and softly pushed him onto his back, brushing flyaway curls from where they threatened to get into his eyes. He watched her with clouded, foggy light- green orbs (and she was astounded at how many times they had changed during the night). She wished she had a blanket or something to place over him- the holding cell was cold and he was cold and she needed her jacket- but instead she pulled his Belstaff coat more tightly around him, making sure his scarf was loose but secure.

When she left the room, she pretended not to hear the small "thank you" on her way out.

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_**Well thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please leave me a comment on your thoughts!**_


	6. Chapter 6

**_This chapter is almost ridiculously short, and I'm sorry about that, but I hope it's pleasing and you all enjoy. Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock. Never did. Don't sue me._**

**_IMPORTANT: SET DURING SEASON ONE AFTER SiP AND BEFORE TBB._**

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It wasn't that John didn't like his new flatmate Sherlock- after all, he had shot a man for the detective and run around London with him, so he guessed he could call him a friend- but honestly, he was aggravating at times. Like now. Now was a good example.

John sighed, running a hand over his face and hefting the bags over his shoulders as he fished for his keys in his pocket. 221 Baker Street was always locked as a precaution (seeing as Sherlock had, apparently, had murderers break in before) and now was no exception. John stared hard at the doorknob, willing it to open. He practically burned a hole through the door (though sadly, didn't) and dug his hands into his pockets viciously, listening for the jingle of his-

He grasped them and violently pulled them from his back jean pocket, jamming it into the lock and twisting it. He shut the door with his foot and mentally noted that he would have to remember to lock it again later. Clomping up the stairs and throwing open the next door, he wasn't quiet as he slammed down the groceries from the nearest Tesco and began viciously unpacking them.

The first thing he had learned: Sherlock kept body parts- _human_ body parts- in the refrigerator.

The second? Sherlock just did _not_ food shop. At all. Or really eat in general (but John was working on that one). In retrospect, he truly seemed like a machine- the quote about transport hadn't been an understatement. Sherlock just didn't take care of his body.

He took a couple deep breaths as he put the last of the packages away, trying to calm his fiery temper down to a more manageable level. After he felt he had his loose anger back under control, he called, "Sherlock? Come on. I'm back. Where've you gotten to?" Because Sherlock was never this quiet, ever; he would mutter to himself if doing an experiment, or he would be playing the violin. Peering around the flat, John's brows furrowed as he spotted Sherlock nowhere. Clenching his jaw, John lightly treaded to Sherlock's closed bedroom door, pressing his ear to it.

What were the chances…

Taking a risk, John bit his lip and gently twisted the knob and pushed the door open.

He felt his mouth go dry and his eyes widened.

Sherlock was under the covers, body turned on its side towards the door. His eyes were closed and flickering back and forth under his lids in REM sleep, and his lips were parted. The only sound was Sherlock's steady, even breathing as it filled the room. Sherlock's arm was under a pillow and the other was resting atop the covers near his chest. His hair, ever curly, was trying to be desperately caught by the pillow but continued to defy gravity, ever stubborn even in slumber. Sherlock on the whole looked ten years younger and infinitely smaller, and John allowed a smile to grace his face as he backed slowly out of the room.

Yes, Sherlock didn't eat. Yes, he took joy in solving a murder and kept human body parts in the fridge and _yes_, he could dissect your life in one glance.

And yes. Sherlock Holmes was also human.

And yes. Sherlock Holmes was also his best friend. And that was enough for one John Hamish Watson.

Sitting down, John grabbed his laptop and opened it, staring blankly at the word document opened before him. Then suddenly, his fingers began flying across the keys in rapid motion, so fast John was surprised the words were coherent. _Sherlock Holmes, my new flat mate, is undeniably brilliant..._

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**_I know, this chapter was ridiculously short. I know. But I hope you've enjoyed it, and I'm sorry to say that I'm done with story now (unless any of you have prompts that you truly want to see, but other than that, I truly don't see how far this story could go). Thank you to all the reviews, follows, and favorites that you've generously given me (who knew people liked sleepylock so much!) _**

**_Thanks for reading!_**


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